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starsofjewels · 2 days ago

Note

no wait because I loved the autistic headcanons you did for tywin and tyrion!! of you could, can you do one for jaime as well? it was just chef kiss, I need so much more of it!

When Gold Met Silver

Jaime Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

CONTENT: Vague mentions of Joanna's death, Tywin being an incredible(!) father, subtle neurodivergency, Lannisters are their own warning

For any confusion, please read the other 2 parts of the series (link pending)

No joke I had 4 requests all asking for Jaime and the sister, so apparently it gets traction now (?) teehee...

Thank you everyone who submitted the exact same request, this was just the first one on the pile. Now I wait for Cersei requests....

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Welcome to the first post of 2025, and what a way to bring it in. I'm starting to think the autistic Lannister reader might just become a series at this point, but I'm not going to complain.

Happy New Year, hopefully it'll be better than the last one. I don't know what to expect from this year yet, but I have a whole pile of unfinished drafts to either finish or delete, so we'll see what gets pulled out...

Love you all lots xx

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When you are born, Jaime is twelve years old- Nearly thirteen, as he is terribly fond of reminding those around him. He is a knight-to-be, and one day he will be a lord in his own right, and he shall have Casterly Rock as his herald. Jaime does not care about the squalling, pink lumps his mother produces for him any more than he does the young ladies of court, who bat their eyes and fawn, like little rabbits caught out in the open season.

But you are something different. And it is your fault that his mother is gone from this world, to whatever lies beyond. He will have no more nights under the stars, recounting each one to her delight, nor stories of his grandfather’s mishaps. He will never feel her embrace, or her love, again. Jaime Lannister is twelve years old, and he is no different from any other boy. He loves swords, and he loves sneaking glances at pretty ladies as they walk past him, and he loved his mother.

Tywin instructs him, very firmly, that he is not to speak such horrid things about his baby sister, nor is he to even think about them. You are beautiful, Tywin says, and perfect in every sense of the word. His gaze falls to young Tyrion, in the corner, with his nursemaidens, and his eyes crinkle with something like disapproval.

You are dressed, bizarrely, in silver and the kind of sweet, dusky orange one might associate with Dorne, and certainly not a pale Westerlands girl. Not scarlet, and definitely not gold. As it transpires, Tywin has had Tyrion’s swaddling clothes burned, or locked away somewhere, and he cannot bear to be reminded of a time Joanna, lively and beautiful, cradled any child in Lannister colours, so your blankets are fresh, and new.

Newness seems to be a recurring theme in your life, as observed by a young, growing Jaime Lannister. He is far too busy training to particularly care, not as much as Cersei does, at least, but even a deafened, dumb beggar out on the streets could notice the blatant favouritism you receive. Jaime is not bothered by this, but he listens to his sister’s constant fixation with your father’s love to a numbing extent.

“And she sleeps in his chambers-” Your move from the nursery to the Hand’s chambers has become something of an overused point. “She’ll be in his bed next!”

Jaime crosses his arms, unamused. He knows Cersei crosses the line frequently, and this, apparently, is one of those times. You are a little child, even he can see that, you have no control over your own life.

“What, are you defending her honour?”

He sits opposite his sister, and says quietly,

“She’s an infant, what does she need honour for?”

It is the one time in his life Jaime can remember actually defending someone against Cersei’s jibes. Usually, he lets them slide through, with a vaguely interested hum. But you are a baby, and, despite how much he yearns to blame you for his mother’s death, it really is not your fault. The Gods could have sent Joanna any child, and any child would have done the same.

And so, Jaime begins to see you how your father does. Where Tywin sees you as his angel of earth, his purpose, Jaime takes a much more mellowed approach. He takes you out riding on your pony, regardless of Tywin’s instructions, and, when you ask, he gets you a practice sword and your own helmet. With enough begging, he gets one of Cersei’s friends to cover the bruising with her powders. Your sister will still not look at you.

Cersei is almost jealous. That is, until a tiny, chubby toddler bounds into her lap and insists that she is a princess. Princess Cersei seems to have a certain fondness for her little lion-cub of a sister, and when Jaime finds her tying ribbons into your hair, he seems relieved, more than anything. After that, she dresses you up in her old clothes, and parades you about, practically on her hip, and pony rides are supervised; no more powders.

But, war is war, and war changes people.

Jaime becomes a Kingslayer, and Princess Cersei becomes a queen. They are corrupted by court, corrupted by Tywin, and most everything falls into disarray. This is what happens when the mighty dragon falls to the lowly deer, apparently.

You are seven years old the first time you come back to the Red Keep, with your anxious father, and a whole new king upon the throne. He dresses you in red and silver- A rather odd choice but, supposedly, you refuse gold with a burning passion. He has never heard of a Lannister refusing to wear gold. Even your bracelets are of silver- Silver and rubies. A nice combination, of course, but not a Lannister one.

Tyrion follows along behind, but he does not care about that. Tyrion is a young man, he has changed very little, it is you who is different- Grown by at least three, if not four, inches, your sweet blonde hair darkened down, and a still face. He can’t forget those big eyes, frozen in fear. You do not recognise him.

Tywin keeps your arm, he moves Jaime away from you. Something is terribly wrong, apparently, and he cannot figure out what. Cersei seems to know, his father and brother know as well. And there is a jealousy which builds, to not be aware of this ailment. He thinks you are dying. You are not, of course.

“What is wrong with her?” Tywin looks up briefly from his studies. You are in your chambers, tucked up in blankets which, almost a decade ago, he can remember himself visiting and watching his mother hold you up. “She doesn’t talk, she doesn’t look at me- Is it serious?”

And his father sighs, in a way only he can,

“She is intelligent, nothing more than that. She likes her things in a particular order, and she doesn’t trust those she does not know.”

“I’m her brother.”

“And she has only had memories for the past eight moons.” Tywin stands, setting his book down upon his chair, “She will warm up, always does. Take her to the stables, she still likes ponies. But not the horses.”

Jaime wants to say more- What is so wrong with horses?- But he gets the sense that there is no more room for argument.

The next morning, whilst Tywin goes to inspect Jon Arryn’s timetabling capabilities, you are brought down with him to see the ponies, who are neatly sectioned in their own place. They bite the horses, apparently, the stablemasters are still trying to heal Robert’s stallion. You trudge past the larger mares nervously, and you jump when they make a noise, or move any more than a hair flick. Jaime has never known any girl to be afraid of horses, especially not noble girls; he has vague memories of a young Cersei escaping their mother’s clutches and parading herself around on a grey mare until Tywin could catch her. But by now, he has figured out that you are by no means a normal girl. There is something underneath the surface that no-one is willing to address, and he dares not bring it up further.

He sends you letters, however brief, and little gifts, and you begin to reply back to him, for it is only polite for a lady to thank her benefactors. Until, eventually, you begin sending him real substance: things you draw, the latest gossip and, his personal favourite, recounting the tall tales you overhear from Tyrion, and asking which words are the ‘bad ones’. He sometimes forgets you are so naive, though he hates to say it. When you write to him, you sound so normal, like any other little lady, perhaps even better. He can feel your emotions flow through your writing in a way no other lady ever could. Jaime keeps every single one of your letters hidden away from Cersei, but there is no real reason to. By this point, Cersei is a mother, and a fed up queen, she has no care for her shy, smaller sister away in Casterly Rock.

And then, Robert dies. The whores, and the boars, get to him, but at least he dies happy, that is more than could be said for most men. Joffrey is a tyrant in the making, Ned Stark is executed publicly, and Tywin is named, for the second time, as Hand of the King.

You are ill the days after your arrival into King’s Landing. A change in the air, Tywin says, not that Jaime is inclined to believe him. He knows you are sensitive, and assumes that, once you settle in a little, you’ll go back to the little girl he knows in his letters.

What he forgets, of course, is that little girls grow up into little women. When he properly sees you, for the first time in what must be a decade, you are about as un-Lannister as he can imagine. Still in silver, sitting by the fountain, quietly brushing your dog’s fur. Your Septa takes her leave when she sees him coming,

“You’ve grown up.”

“Did you expect me not to?”

Not the response he was expecting, but more Lannister than your appearance. All lions are sarcastic, literal. At least some part of you is tied to that. He isn’t quite sure what he wants- Perhaps you run to him like Cersei would, to jump into his arms and kiss him fondly and sweetly, as he’s seen you do to Tywin. Perhaps he is jealous of how your father treats you, or, more likely, he is upset that you love Tywin more than you do him. Jaime tries, he tries very hard, and it is you who limits him. He lets you be after some short questioning, called up to Cersei.

As your weeks begin to shift to months, he sees you more and more, from his position at Joffrey’s side. Cersei grows cautious and closed, as the rumours of the boy’s true parentage seep in, as though she expects him to do something about it. You are happy, though, he is sure of it. Tywin buys you new outfits, or you sew them, he isn’t quite sure, and you have that stupid, old dog which he is certain has stayed that age for decades.

Of course, nothing can be peaceful for long. He goes to the North, to the Riverlands, or wherever his captors take him. He loses a hand, his long hair, and most of his dignity. Cersei falls out with him, Tywin views him as a pity-case, and he isn’t particularly sure where Tyrion has gotten to.

Jaime’s duties are vague and little, supposedly to aid his recovery following the amputation. He spends much of his time standing there and, as tactfully put by Tyrion, ‘looking pretty’. He doesn’t feel particularly pretty, dressed up in gilded armour. And for once, he understands why you might hate gold.

It is one of these ceremonial days that you bound up to him, bangles up your arm and a new ring on each finger, stroking your way through a bouquet of wildflowers. He has never seen you so confident, or so happy. You plop down beside him, and he looks over, with careful vigilance.

“Where did those come from?”

You look up at him, you smile, and he finds himself growing increasingly confused,

“From Father,” You say it so obviously, as though there is no other possible answer. Jaime cannot imagine the great Tywin Lannister gifting anyone but you a bouquet of flowers, aside from the vague memory of Joanna putting daffodils in his sister’s rooms when they bloomed.

You offer him a single flower, purple; lavender, he thinks. Not uncommon by any means, but not a noble flower. He imagines you would like that sort of thing, simple, and defined. It sways from side to side in the soft breeze, not quite enough to rustle the petals, but enough to make its point known. The two of you sit in contended silence, watching as the occasional servant, or lower lord, rushes past to gain someone’s attention. The two of you are almost invisible to the greater population, he as a living statue, and you as an outsider.

“I’m coming to the Reach with you and Cersei,” You say eventually, glancing up at him from your seat on the steps, “If that’s alright.”

Jaime cannot remember why Cersei wants to visit the Reach, something about a flower festival- Or a wine festival, more likely. He cannot seem to imagine you, his delicate, little, sister enjoying such a thing.

“Without Father?”

You shrug slightly, lifting yourself up from your step to stand in front of him. Of course, being smaller than him, you have to look up. You are no different to him than a little child in this state, though, most people are.

“If I’m going to be a lady, I have to learn to do things without Father, that’s what Cersei said. I can do things on my own, you know, I’m not a baby.”

He’s never heard you speak so well, so clearly. Perhaps he’s been mistaken in what he’s heard. This is not the shy, small girl he watched grow up. But he has no room to voice it, you continue,

“But Father says I can only come if there’s someone watching me, so I told Ser Meryn he has to stay behind me, and he’s not allowed to do anything for me- Unless I’m too short to reach something, I suppose and-”

Jaime takes you by your shoulders, and you stop. He is amazed, and you, for whatever reason, are exceptionally excited about the Reach. No one is ever excited about the Reach.

“Of course you can come.” He says, almost too quietly, “you can do anything you’d like.”

You emerge from the Reach a month later, rosy-cheeked, whether by wine or the air, covered in flowers, and babbling about something or the other, Tywin calls for him. Jaime sits on the other side of his father’s office, that fat, old dog spread out beside him.

“She’s never been so happy,” The Old Lion rearranges red and yellow flowers in a pot as his desk. They’re new, he notices, probably a gift from you. “It was good for her.”

And that is all that needs to be said.

#game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #got x reader #game of thrones x y/n #got #jaime lannister x reader #lannister!reader #lannister x reader #autistic!reader #autistic!lannister!reader #if you're confused please read the rest of the series #is it a series? idrk #god bless the obvious favouritism

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